


I am, I am, I am

by thewolvesintherain



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, pouty sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 14:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12191643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvesintherain/pseuds/thewolvesintherain
Summary: Sam's got a - history of bad birthdays. This year he isn't sure if he'll be breaking that streak or not. Lucky for him he's got his friends around him, good days or bad.





	I am, I am, I am

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Title is from Sylvia Plath, "I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am." It's also a play on "Sam I am" because everyone likes the Seuss-man!
> 
> I too have a history of bad birthdays, and like Sam, I can be a little pouty about it. 
> 
> This will be chapter 1. Chapter 2 will get posted tomorrow night. 
> 
> Art was provided by the lovely Curtis, at http://shushisandwiches.tumblr.com/. Make sure you stop by and give him some love!

  
The night of his 39th birthday, Sam spends a solid hour and a half on a rooftop in New York. The roof itself, the final border of Strange's Sanctum Santorum has to provide one of the best views in the city.   
Sam spends the time steadfastly not enjoying it, and pretending that he's not cold and tired. That his shoulder doesn't ache, or his head doesn't pound.   
That he's not getting old.   
That eleven o'clock on a weekday might not be too much to ask from a body still recovering from a massive surgery.   
  
In a juvenile move, he's hiding from his own birthday party.   
Which, he knows is bad. He knows it.   
The party had been a surprise. Steve'd arranged the whole thing, caught him as he was coming in from his physio, ready to take a hot shower and go to bed.   
Of course, he'd acted surprised - and delighted, and he had been.   
It was just - not great timing.   
He'd stuck it out through the dinner and the drinks, tired and sore - then snuck up here to have a few minutes to lick his wounds in peace and quiet. Before too long he's going to have to go back down for cake and presents.   
And to get some of these people out of Strange's house so they can all get some sleep.   
  
Everyone else in the house is currently enthralled with the final round of the Mario Kart tournament Wong had initiated. The final round has Tony and Clint pitched against one another, and the tournament will take a while if Sam knows either of them.   
Bucky had taken one look at his miserable face - leaning against one wall and trying to keep away from the worst of his friends' shoulder rubbing - and understood immediately.   
The younger man's face had lit with sympathy and he'd leaned over, careful not to touch Sam but close enough to talk - and cocked a head towards the stairs, telling him, "I'll buy you some time, pal."  
  
He'd taken that offer and run with it.   
  
It's not that Sam doesn't appreciate the party, he does. And it's not that he doesn't love his friends. Because he does.   
  
He just -   
  
This year has been shitty. Hell, most of this past decade's been shitty.   
His birthday is starting to feel like just another day, and it's getting harder and harder to fake all the merriment involved when he's - weary.  
  
Some of it's physical - he knows. He's still recovering from being shot, and the fourteen-hour surgery that had followed. It's been about two weeks, but both his doctors and Strange had insisted that he rest and take it easy. The ordeal had been hard on his body - without considering the infection he's still fighting off even now.  
  
Not sleeping in his own bed is difficult too. When he'd been shot he'd gone to University because that's where everyone on their team goes for emergencies. Once he'd come through his surgery, Clint and Tony had put their considerable resources together to figure out where he was going to stay for the duration of his recovery.   
Clint's Bed Stuy property was out - no one to help him out, and the mafia was acting up again.   
Steve and Bucky would have taken him, offered in fact, but Steve and Bucky currently have two Norse gods asleep on their couch. Which is fine - it's fine.   
It's not like they've given his room away, and Thor and his brother really do need a place to stay.   
But Sam's not one for group living situations after the raft. Needs a little more space than that brownstone will provide with four other people.   
And as selfish as it sounds, Steve and Bucky's place was just supposed to be for him. To hide away in, relax from his own life.   
To not be around five fully grown men (and Wanda) twenty-four hours a day.   
  
He'd ixnayed upstate for the same reason. Too many people. Too much work to keep everyone happy.   
Also, Colonel Rhodes is still there, and that' never not going to be awkward.   
  
It had been Tony's idea to call Strange, see if he had his spare room available. The other man has no problem lending it out to other heroes, like the company or something.  
The tenant before Sam was the friggin' Wolverine. Strange promised they'd washed everything afterward.   
Both Strange and his colleague Wong have been nothing but kind and courteous. Even so, Sam still doesn't feel - comfortable with them.   
It's not their fault, he's - slow to warm up to people these days. After Ross, and the raft, and Wakanda, he's retreated more into watchfulness, caution.   
He can't imagine being ballsy enough to talk to complete strangers that he meets on the national mall anymore.   
And Steve - Steve's given his life a lot of joy, a lot of meaning, and Sam is so, so grateful for that.   
He's also the reason for the terrible party downstairs, so Sam's gratitude is a bit tempered this evening.   
And that's - not charitable.   
  
It's just, he doesn't usually do anything for his birthday, and there's a reason for that.   
It always goes badly.   
Always.   
Anymore, he considers it enough of an accomplishment to have made it one more go around the sun.   
Living through this last year has been even more of an accomplishment than the ones before. With the new job on Clint's special ops team, there's been more than a few opportunities for horrible deaths and or maimings. He considers it a point of pride that Sam's managed to avoid almost all of them.   
Really, a couple of slugs in the shoulder is pretty good, considering some of his other options.   
If that's not an accomplishment, he doesn't know what is.   
Steve, of course, had been horrified that he didn't do much for his birthday.   
Steve and Bucky always go all out for themselves and for other people. And that makes sense, both of them have suffered so much, and had so little in their lives, that of course, they want to celebrate.   
Sam's just - not that way.   
  
And the party - he knows he's being childish, knows he's sulking. It's just -   
  
It's hard to be around people sometimes. To try to be happy, to try to be the person he was before Ross, before the raft. Before he started blowing up CIA black sites for a living. And it's hard to try to explain that to people as well sometimes because as far as they're concerned, he's alive, he's healthy, he has to be happy.   
  
But it's not that simple sometimes, not the way that his brain works anymore. There are plenty of things that happened to him to cause that, but the most recent (and probably the most effective, to be frank, was definitely the raft.)  
He puts on a good enough show most of the time, of being his usual involved self. But this one - this one's a toughie. He usually spends his birthdays by themselves (notwithstanding the ones where he's in the hospital. Or the army.)   
He likes spending his birthday alone, and no, he's not wallowing in self-pity, like his mother, suggested.   
He just - wants to not have to put on a show for anyone)  
He puts on a show for his family, though that's a labor of love, because he doesn't want people to worry.   
  
  
But when it comes to his friends, He's tired of always having to pull himself up by his bootstraps. To march on with a smile on his face because he's setting a good example for - whoever the fuck he's setting a good example for this year.   
  
And yeah, he doesn't want Clint to see him this way, or any of the other guys either. Especially when he's always been the champion for expressing your emotions and dealing with your feelings. And making sure that Steve isn't pulling a Steve and hiding away from everyone else to sulk.   
  
Right now though, he's beginning to feel bad about how hard of a time he gave Steve about this. The night is blessedly quiet, and the cold air is enough of a shock to make his arms prickle with gooseflesh and his head feels a little bit quieter.   
It's finally, finally, just him up here.   
  
And there's a certain sort of pleasure in being alone with your thoughts, especially the ugly ones. It's a particular joy to be able to work yourself into a strop, this far into adulthood. It's not one Sam gets to experience very often these days when logic and reason usually prevail. Tonight though, it's his birthday, and if he wants to pout, well he damn well can.   
  
He's settling down, feeling the cold of the roof seep through his jeans and into his legs when he hears the door creak and open.   
He expects it to be Steve or Bucky, and braces himself for some well-meaning scolding, or "I've held 'em off as long as I can, pal."  
  
It's neither one of those people.   
It's his host, whom Sam hasn't seen very much of this evening. Strange had agreed to the party. There's no way Steve had shown up with twenty-something people and a ton of food with no notice.   
And he'd been fine with things, mingling for a few minutes before he'd retreated to his office? bedroom? Magic chamber?  
Sam didn't know. Either way, he'd been perfectly pleasant about the whole thing. Sam just hasn't seen him in - four hours.   
Which isn't unusual. Sam's gotten used to only seeing him in the morning when he dresses Sam's shoulder, and at night, when they all eat dinner together.   
That's more Wong's insistence than Strange's. The other man is a pretty decent cook, and he likes to make something different for dinner every night.   
He also likes nagging Strange to eat. He nags Sam too, but nowhere near as badly as Strange.   
Sam wonders if that's what Strange has come up here to avoid, but can't think of a good way to ask him as the other man settles onto the floor beside him, saying, "I wondered where you'd snuck off to."

  
He raises his arms as if to show, "Here" and Strange chuckles a little, showing a bottle and two glasses in his trembling hands.   
"My present. Thought you wouldn't mind if we opened this one a little bit early."  
Sam laughs, tells him, "Not at all." and gestures for the other men to sit down. Takes one of the glasses and the bottle - whiskey, a nice single malt that's exactly to Sam's taste, and pours out a finger for them both. Strange tells him, "Just one drink. You've still got a few days left of those antibiotics." but doesn't argue when Sam takes that to mean that he should go ahead and slosh a little bit more in there then.   
  
He tells Sam, "I would think you'd be down with the rest of your friends." and Sam twists up his face a little, tells him, "Parties aren't - really my scene anymore. And birthday parties never have been."  
Strange looks surprised, asks, "You don't celebrate your birthday?"  
Sam shakes his head, tells him, "I usually buy something for myself in the labor day sales, but that's about it. I have - bad luck when it comes to my birthday."  
  
Strange shakes his head, tells him, "You can't really mean that."  
  
Sam laughs at him, shakes his head, "I'm a cursed man. I'm telling you, I don't have good birthdays."  
  
And he doesn't, is the thing. He really, really doesn't.   
His eighteenth birthday he'd gotten in a car accident. It hadn't been serious, and the cop was nice enough. Though there had been a definite, "I'll be seeing you again" look on his face.  
  
 But he'd spent the entire night filling out paperwork. More than three hours going over his statement with the harried traffic cop and staring down the asshole who'd run into him. By the time he was through, it was 11:30, and he had just enough time to drive his now even more clunky car home.   
  
His twentieth he'd been in Afghanistan.   
(Most of his twenties he'd been in Afghanistan, but when his family talks about The Afghanistan Birthday this is the one that they mean. They don't talk about the rest.)  
  
His twenty-ninth birthday his sister had taken him out to one of his favorite Mexican restaurants the night before. So he'd woken up with food poisoning the morning of.   
  
This also marked the last time he celebrated his birthday in any sort of culinary style.   
  
For his thirtieth, he'd gotten himself a new car.   
The same car Bucky had destroyed on the interstate, during his little murder spree. Not that he'd ever told the other man that.   
Either way, he'd gotten the insurance replacement, bought the new one for his thirty-sixth. That car is still in the garage in the Avengers facility, and he's either been too busy or too cowardly to go pick it up. It's not like he needs it with his job now.  
  
His thirty-seventh had been all right. His thirty-eighth he'd been in Wakanda, high on painkillers and sleeping the effects of the raft off.   
  
"And that - " he concludes, while Strange pours out a little bit more whiskey into both of their glasses, "Is why I don't celebrate my birthday."  
  
Strange shakes his head, knocks back his drink, tells him, "I can't say I blame you. Why did Rogers throw you a party then?"  
  
Sam shakes his head, tells him, "This is the first year he could. No one's in prison, or am an international fugitive. And I've known this was coming. He and Bucky always make a big fuss about their birthdays. Stands to reason it was my turn next."  
  
Strange laughs at that a little, tells him, "I can portal you somewhere if you want."  
But Sam shakes his head, wryly. Tells the other man, "I'm gonna have to get on with it. Feels like a waste of time, to be honest. All I did was stay on the rock for another year."  
Strange shakes his head, tells him, "Living is a blessing, Samuel. And an accomplishment."   
He knows this. He has told so many people this, but right now - it doesn't feel like much of either one. It just feels like - work.   
  
And celebrating that work - feels worse than feeling sorry for himself.   
  
Strange tells him, "I won't lecture you about treasuring what you have, I'm sure you've heard more than your fair share - lived it too."  
Sam can't help but nod at that, but he sighs, begins to gain his feet slowly, tells Strange -," Oh, I know. I promise I do."  
He takes a deep breath, lets out a thick, heavy sigh, and faces Strange, telling him, "It's been a bad year."  
Strange nods, says, "With your shoulder - "  
"Yeah. That was just the cherry on top of that sundae, unfortunately."  
Strange winces, tells him, "I've had a year like that, myself."  
He moves closer to Sam, clasps his shoulder gently and tells him, "You'll get through. We all do."  
Then he grips Sam's hand gently, tells him, "Come on. Let's get this over with birthday boy."  
He can't help laugh as he descends the stairs, and it genuinely helps.


End file.
